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    Surrealities, part I
    Surrealities, part I
    Surrealities, part I
    Ebook78 pages1 hour

    Surrealities, part I

    By J. Dean

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    About this ebook

    From the mind of storyteller J. Dean comes the "Surrealities," short story series, a concept rooted in and inspired by weekly television serials such as The Twilight Zone, Night Gallery, and The Outer Limits, and classic radio serials such as Suspense, Dimension X, Lights Out, and other regular tales that take the imagination to the heights of exhilaration and the depths of fear.

    In "The Madness," three people are confronted with a killer insanity that falls upon the general population of their city. "Requiem Nosferatu" takes the reader to a memorial service for a young man whose death is not as sure as it may seem.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJ. Dean
    Release dateJun 12, 2014
    ISBN9781370734115
    Surrealities, part I
    Author

    J. Dean

    "Taking fantasy in a completely unique direction."This is what J. Dean intends to do with the Vein series. Instead of following the tried and true methods and paths of familiar fantasy mythos, he created an original world for an epic story. From his Michigan residence, he captures the fantasy world of the Vein (and other stories) and imprisons them upon paper, until the day when the words are set free by the imagination of those willing to read them. The Vein series is J. Dean's first venture into serious writing, and he hopes that you will join him on the twists and turns of this ride that is part excitement, part drama, part terror, and all adventure.

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      Book preview

      Surrealities, part I - J. Dean

      Surrealities, Part I

      J. Dean

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014, J. Dean

      http://enterthevein.wordpress.com

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      The Madness

      I hate the silence.

      That’s what happens to you when you spend a good portion of your life living in the city, with its endless noises filling your ears. You get used to the multiple honks of car horns, even at two in the morning, though you learn to sleep through them after a number of nights. You pat your leg in cadence with the rhythmic clacking of wheels on rails when the elevated train passes by, transporting the incarcerated passengers to their daily imprisonments in various employee stations and cubicles. You soak in the rumble of motors running upstream and downstream on asphalt river beds, and at times you’ll catch yourself grinning at the less-than-pleasant shouts from the pilots of the four-wheeled vessels, especially when their vociferous comments are accompanied by gestures of unbridled offensiveness.

      You hear it all, see it all, and before you know it, it’s nothing more than background noise taken for granted. Just part of the canvas of the artwork called daily life in the city.

      But when it gets quiet—when it gets really quiet—it’s as if your entire world has been misplaced.

      And I need to find that world again, find it soon.

      I’m atop my apartment building right now, exposed to a crimson September sun in a cloudless evening sky, staring at vacated structures, straining to hear something, anything at all, that tells me that everything’s returning to normal. I’m watching the street below, wishing I could see pedestrians walking, jogging, talking to each other, texting a friend or loved one with one hand while stuffing a sandwich into their mouth with the other. I'm begging to see the automobiles flow through the veins and arteries of the downtown area again, sustaining the various restaurants, attractions, and other businesses with a steady inflow of people. I want to see life as usual.

      But the scene below me is still, silent, quiet.

      Dead.

      **

      I had just returned from the doctor’s when it started, sometime around three or so. I had the day off; Angelo was good enough to give me one without throwing a fit about being shorthanded at the deli that day. I couldn’t blame him if he had given me grief about it, seeing as how the college kids he hired didn’t always report at their scheduled times. But he knew me well enough to know that I rarely needed a sick day, and that the sinus infection that plagued me wouldn’t be shaken by my usual routine of horseradish, tabasco, and hot tea.

      Good ole’ Angelo.

      I had dropped my keys while in the hall. With a whispered curse, I reached for the star-shaped configuration of silver and bronze metal atop the plush burgundy carpet. That’s when Sheryl Carlton opened her door.

      Frank! she exclaimed. Did you hear about it? About what happened at the baseball field?

      Blinking with bewilderment, I looked up at her. She was an older, well-rounded woman: a little plump and curvy but still retaining an attractive feminine shape. Her rounded hair was kept to neck-length while the top blossomed out and over her forehead with artificial blondness. Something about the outline of her head made me think of a pumpkin. Her body was clad in a dark blue dress, the attire completed with matching shoes on stocking-clad feet.

      Baseball field? I questioned.

      Oh, it’s terrible! she cried, her hand over her mouth. It’s crazy down there! I was listening to the game and they said it’s mass confusion! Chaos!

      Behind me, another door opened. I whirled around, my fingers tightening around my keychain. The familiar whisker-peppered ebony face of Stan Rutherford appeared.

      You talking about what’s going on at the Wolves game? he inquired.

      Yes! Sheryl answered.

      Terrible thing going on there, he answered, shaking his hairless scalp. It’s on TV right now. Just can’t believe something like that’s happening.

      Something like what, Stan? I asked.

      He peered at me from over the thick rims of his bifocals. You didn’t hear about this? Aren’t you working today?

      No. Had a doctor’s appointment. Angelo gave me the time off.

      I have to call Tim, Sheryl began. See if he’s okay.

      She headed back into her apartment, failing to shut her door. I turned toward Stan. So what happened?

      "Bottom of the fourth inning, Rogerson was up. Hit a deep ball to right field that got away from the fielder’s mitt, so Rogerson was trying for triple. Slid into third at the same time the throw got there. Umpire called him out. Coach Martinez blew up, ran out on the field with a baseball bat in his hand and started screaming at the umpire. Didn’t get more than five words out when the ump ejected him from the game.

      Well… that’s when it started happening. Martinez took that bat and did exactly what he was threatening to do with it. Laid that ump out cold. Stan rubbed a set of bony fingers across his wrinkled cheeks. I don’t even know if the ump's alive.

      My jaw fell open. That’s terrible! I answered. No wonder you two are—

      No-no, Frank, Stan interrupted, waving me off. That’s not the worst of it. That was just the beginning.

      From somewhere in her apartment came Sheryl’s voice in short, frantic phrases. There’s more?

      Much more. By that time the crowd was worked up, furious. As soon as Martinez clocked that ump, they snapped. Started coming down the bleachers and storming the field, every single one of ‘em hollering and screaming, looking like they were hoping to kill somebody in the process.

      Stan glanced back into his apartment as he spoke. "I’ve never seen so many people look and act like that before. Not like this. I’ve seen angry people and I’ve seen people so

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